


Isla Brae

by dawn_watcher



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Letters, Rating May Change, References to Depression, Rey Needs A Hug, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:42:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24948613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawn_watcher/pseuds/dawn_watcher
Summary: Dear new tenant,As the previous tenant, let me say, I wish you the best of luck in Isla Brae; I hope you like it as I had when I lived there... Sincerely, Rey---Rey Johnson, an emergency room doctor, writes to the resident of her old sea-house in Scotland, asking for a favor. What starts as a small request turns into companionship, and maybe more, with the architect who lives there. However, they make a discovery that two-years time separates their correspondence.A fic based off the Korean romantic-drama Il Mare and the American remake The Lakehouse. Featuring a 2020 Rey writing to a 2018 Ben Solo.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief mention of death and violence; Rey is an emergency-room doctor burdened by her first weeks in residency. The mentions will be few and far between, but I'll do my best to forewarn and prepare you all. I hope you like the story as I had when I watched these films, and that you all stay well and safe.

28 January, 2020 

Her fingers seal the edge of the envelope, pressing against the smooth and cold paper as her fingers risk the bitter cold. After they’ve done their task, her hands retreat back to her worn-through woolen gloves, red fingertips showing through the frayed threads of forest-green. She wishes she could place the letter in the mailbox there herself, if only for the freedom of seeing the ocean and the smell of sea-salt on the wind. It was a beautiful mailbox. Instead, it goes into the Royal Mail red box on Fourth Street, which smells of frozen rubbish, to be sent out tomorrow. Here the only trace of the sea flies overhead on dirtied white wings, scavenging and squawking and stealing her sandwiches when she eats in the park. 

Rubbing her palms together for warmth, she listens for the light thud of the envelope in the bottom of the mailbox as the slot-door slows from its swinging. Although standing there won’t ensure its delivery any quicker, she tilts back and forth on her heels, fighting a sense of being lost. A man had died in her arms last week after being hit by a car on the Tollcross intersection; it had been her first day off from the Accidents and Emergency unit after a week of constant, constant work, and no deaths. Not until now, at least. Maybe she hadn’t been on the job then, but she would still count it as the first death on her hands. She was supposed to be saving lives, wasn’t she? 

“What am I doing here?” she asks softly, her voice fighting not to break. The frigid wind steals the sound of her pointless question away, and the sting it brings to her eyes mixes with the building wetness there. Hastily, she wipes it away. With a shaky breath she huddles her coat closer to her chest, walking back through the gray sidewalks and gray skies and gray stone buildings back to the flat she’d be making home. With any luck. 

To: New Tenant 

Isla Brae, Emery Road

St. Andrews, Fife

Scotland

_Dear new tenant,_

_I hope my writing you is not a bother, but I know how short on neighbors one would be out there on the fringe. The quiet is profound, away from town. As the previous tenant, let me say, I wish you the best of luck in Isla Brae; I hope you like it as I had when I lived there. I’ve just relocated to Edinburgh before Christmas for work. For all of the address-changes and updates I’ve made with my bank, job, and Amazon account the last few weeks, I know how convoluted the systems can be. If anything for me slips through, would you forward it to my flat in Edinburgh? I’d appreciate it. I’ve included some stamps, and my new address is below. Thanks in advance..._

\--- 

He tucks the cardboard box of plates and kitchenware under his arm, giving him an awkward but free hand to tear the letter’s sealed edge. As he slips the paper from its envelope, a few stamps fall out with it. “What the -” 

The wind nearly scatters them, but he stoops quickly to retrieve them, setting the box down. One of them lands in a puddle along the sands, its thistle and mountain print wetted by the saltwater. Shaking it lightly, he tries to dry it as he walks back through the beach to where he left his things by the mailbox. 

He could easily pick up the box, with the letter in his right hand and the stamps firmly secured in his left. But the peek of elegant handwriting that shines through the page in the light catches him. It’s truly beautiful, not as restrained as that on the letter’s front. The slants and curves of the letters are mesmerising. Unconsciously, his steps divert to the plank-pathway that spans the beach, all the way from the street side to the home on stilts by the water. 

“Isla Brae,” he murmurs, the name rolling nicely on his lips. He had only seen it a few times, all in his uncle’s sketchbooks detailing the home’s design. The detail is discarded, though, as he reads the letter’s contents. _Dear new tenant…_

“Meow!” A small but furious yowl stops him in his tracks. Just beneath where his next steps would have gone is a black cat lounging in the cloud-scattered sunlight, his tail too close for comfort to the man’s shoe. 

The thing is scraggly-looking, and probably feral, but the man’s heart thaws a little bit, even with the full force of its vehement yellow-eyed glare centered on him. “Sorry, little guy,” a thought registers and he checks by the cat’s tail. Yep, little guy was right. “Didn’t see you there,” he adds apologetically as he squats down to its level. 

Slowly, he places his hand by its nose, letting the cat scrunch his face in question and nuzzle his fingers lightly. The cat doesn’t altogether object when he brushes closer, letting his hand rest on the cat’s head. There’s a lot of dust there, and the man frowns a bit. Aren’t cats supposed to clean themselves? 

The cat seems to have had enough, and the man’s hamstrings are aching so he stands, moving to unlock the door with the set of keys in his pocket. He’s careful not to crease the letter as he switches it to his other hand and opens the door. The cat bolts in, nearly knocking him off balance in the process. 

A light scoff leaves his lips, “Make yourself at home,” he says, passing through the house to lay the stamps and envelope on the kitchen countertop by the house’s north side. Behind him, the cat watches him expectantly from where he’s already fully stretched out by the living room windows, where the sun is strongest, facing south. “You like that there?” he mumbles, going over to open the window for the salty breeze and stronger rays of sun. The winter air is bitter, and the sun uncommon for this time of year, but it will replace the musky new-home smell in time. As for the cat, the fall of sunlight seems to work, since he closes his eyes lazily, almost smiling. 

The entire home’s perimeter was made with windows, floor-to-ceiling, with said ceilings more or less the same that angled towards the sky in prisms of light. Not his uncle’s best or grandest work, but more personal, if his uncle had those kinds of sentiments. The home’s stilts and wooden floors were Caledonian pine, deep in hue and slightly aromatic. There were steps too that descended from the home’s interior to the ocean’s surface below the house. This particular stretch of shore along Emery Road could brave the North Sea’s more fearsome tides that battled the northern towns, with much thanks to the shelter provided by Fife’s microclimate and the sheltered bank. The water beneath was still and quiet most days. 

His first hour at the beach house was meant to be used for surveying the home and bringing in his belongings from the car parked by the roadside. But it’s evening, and as the sun is setting there is something else, something sacred he can’t quite name mixing with the smell of salt and sand. So he goes to where he left the front door open, the dusk behind the grassy hills deepening into hues of purple and blue. He opens the letter again, eyes rereading it slowly until he’s where he left off:

_If anything for me slips through, would you forward it to my flat in Edinburgh? I’d appreciate it. I’ve included some stamps, and my new address is below. Thanks in advance, sincerely,_

“Rey,” he says. Rey Johnson. The name is light, simple, pretty even. It rolls off his tongue like “Isla Brae,” and the corner of his lip tugs upwards slightly. Then his eyes see a faint mark of another sentence on the page’s back. 

“P.S,” he mumbles to himself, voice only then gaining body as he imagines the woman’s voice, conciliatory and probably Scottish. “Sorry about the paw prints on the front door. They were there when I moved in. Same with the box in the attic.” A moment passes before he folds the letter once more, tucking it into his coat pocket, another frown bracing his features. 

“Paw prints?” From where he stands on the porch, there’s nothing there but the uniformly laid planks, all wood-stained the same deep brown. “What the hell is she on about?” he turns back into the house, meandering through until he finds the pull-down ladder. 

He climbs it, opening the hatch when he’s at the top to ascend into the attic. There’s nothing there either, though the light is dim the air is filled with dust-motes. He tries flicking the light switch on the left, but nothing goes off. He hums, adding an item to his mental admin list, “Fix the light.”

He descends again, getting another meow from the cat when he pushes the ladder back into place. This time it’s more demanding, but not as hateful. He’s moved from his spot by the window, staring up at him with a measured glare. 

“What do you want?” He asks accusingly. The cat’s eyes squint in offense, before it smacks its furry lips together. “Ah,” he adds. “Get cat food, huh?” 

The cat doesn’t give any confirmation, but the man won’t wait around for it. Now he’s got a pushy cat telling him what to do. He hasn’t even had dinner yet himself. He opens the fridge, though there’s no expectancy there. There’s only a stupid wish for pizza and beer, however much he’s progressed from his bachelor’s diet in recent years. But there’s nothing, yet again.

“Get human food.” 

Of the things left in his car, namely everything he brought, he picks the small round table, a pillow, a candle, and a box of matches. All the day’s light has left, so he’ll have to make do with finishing up the unpacking in the morning. Leaving his phone to charge on the counter, he crosses back to the cat’s lounging place on the south side, closing the windows. The home’s heating is cranked and the candle is lit, so he props the pillow at a safe distance from the cat and fluffs it, laying himself down. 

An odd crinkle comes from his coat, and he suddenly remembers the letter. Sitting up to take off the coat, he picks out the letter and lays the rest aside, holding the page so the light flickers across the words, and he reads them once more. 

It’s slightly baffling, the more he reads it over. As far as he knows, the house’s main structure was only completed in November, and then there were the utilities and other add-ons that had taken time as well. Had his uncle really let it out to this woman before it was ready? No, he thought to himself. Not someone he wouldn’t know. Perhaps there’d been some mistake…

His eyelids droop heavily and the candle’s warmth spreads with welcome light over him. Sighing, he turns over once more, closing his eyes in momentary surrender, giving no bother to extinguish the candle. The letter is still in his hand. 

Paw prints and attic-boxes. Admittedly, he was intrigued. Details and questions mix with the murk of pre-sleep dreams that floated, halfway formed. Realizing the depth of his difficulty in staying awake, he stands to place the paper on the counter by his phone. It wouldn’t do to have it on the floor where he slept, close enough to crush if he rolls over in the night. He moves it, just keeping its mysteries intact. As he sets it down, his thoughts barely register one last detail, etched in smaller writing in the upper left corner of that first page. _28 January, 2020_. 

A glance at his phone confirms otherwise. 28 January, 2018. His exhaustion-addled brain doesn’t heed the anomaly further though, other than to demand he grab a blanket from the car and get to bed immediately. Nearly midnight now. The cat meows again when he reenters, blanket in hand, closing the house off from the wintery cold just outside. “Goodnight,” he mumbles half-heartedly. 

With an arm between the pillow and his head and a hand to his chest, he turns, extinguishing the light in a couple of huffed attempts. Its sandalwood scent fades to smoke, and his consciousness steadily seeps into unconsciousness as the stars appear above the horizons. One last thing, he thinks, thoughts already muddled and slipping into dreams. The words escape his lips, just barely above a whisper,

“Write to Rey.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isla Brae pronunciation: "Eye-la Bray," approximately meaning island-hill or slanted road in Scots-Gaelic (pronounced gal - lic instead of the Irish gay - lic)
> 
> Edinburgh is the historic/current capital of Scotland, though the country's independence movement is in hiatus. The seaside town of St. Andrews is an hour's ride north on the Scottish Rail. I've been wanting to write a story here for some time, and I was inspired by a rom-com and its Korean original. I've taken the story here to Scotland, and I hope it brings some comfort
> 
> In old Scotland, a black cat on a doorstep would be a sign of prosperity.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More graphic medical details/violence mentioned in this chapter, but we'll keep moving from that. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your kudos and the warm response! Will be back for edits/end notes.

Rey wakes up to the sound of the trains, distant and rumbling. The rains in Edinburgh don’t bring lightning, so she knows it isn’t thunder. A peek towards the window shows gray misting skies, and she curls further into her duvet, where the heated impression of her body means it isn’t as cold. 

She could always turn the heating on, but of course that would mean more money in utilities. Having already forsaken the allowance she’d set aside for her weekly bus trips to the next-town beach, Rey wasn’t keen on giving up any other amenities. So she puts her coat on and gets back under the covers. 

Glancing to her phone, she notes twenty minutes until she needs to start getting ready for her shift. It’s 4:30 in the morning, just when the commuter trains between Scotland’s cities begin their rounds. As for her commute, it’s a forty minute walk from her flat to the hospital. With a bus ticket, it would have been eighteen, but she likes the morning walk. At least she would, Rey told herself, when the coldest months were over. 

Still, a light smile touches her lips, and she stretches. Her dream had been a good one, as far as she remembers. Sunlight had perforated the gray, and daffodils littered the hillside by the castle, thousands of them. She had stood below, cherishing the yellows and golds. Falling in the grass…

No, not the grass. Falling on the pavement, at the side of a man. His head was at her hand, blood trickling from one of his ears, dark eyes glazed over. 

The blare of her phone on the bedside table jolts her from her morphing nightmare. Bolting upright, she grasps at the damned vibrating thing blindly until it’s in her hands. Any murderous rage built towards her alarm disippitates when the words on the screen show a name rather than a patronizing “good morning.” 

Poe Dameron. 

Automatically, Rey’s eyes flit to the time, relieved to see she hadn’t unconsciously fallen back asleep and missed her shift. She slides the ‘receive call’ graphic to the right with the pad of her thumb, only to not hear anything from the other side. 

“Poe?” her voice sounds groggy, so she clears her throat, worry mounting somewhat when her coworker doesn’t answer. “What is it? Did something happen?”

He answers, though Rey realizes the silence might not have been that long, “No, Rey. Don’t worry, I’m just…” he sighs a little, a sound she usually hears accompanied with seeing him pinch the bridge of his nose, worried. “Finn told me about the accident last week; I wish you had said something.” 

The man from the car collision on Tollcross. The nightmare. 

“They took him to Chalmers, not the Infirmary,” she shrugs the phone between her shoulder and her ear, moving to get out of bed and flick on some lights. She had filed a report at the other hospital as a first-responder. _Internal bleeding. Brain swelling. Broken spinal cord. Asphyxiation. Death two minutes after collision._ As the details swirl about her in a violent storm she shakes them off, figuring why he’d be calling. “I should have reported to Dr. Organa.”

“No, that’s not it,” Poe interjects, “but she asked me to call you. You’ve seemed off this week, and she was worried -”

Rey’s breath escapes her shakily; she didn’t need to think too much about his euphemism. What feeling “off” meant in her unit could be a two-second delay or the wrong medication or a slipped scalpel. She had done all three, numerously; it was fortunate her team was competent enough to cover for her mistakes. “Poe, I know. I’ve been better though, I promise. I’ll be in today and I can write the report and -”

“Rey, it’s not about the report. Dr. Organa wants you to take today and tomorrow off instead of the weekend. And frankly, I agree with her,” he admits. “It’s a lot to go through, what you did.” He’s interrupted by some muffled chatter, the noise of those wheely-beds they use in the hospital rolling by. 

There’s a voice, stern and insistent, but Rey hears it soften with some low words, “Give it to me.” 

Poe must have handed the phone to Leia, because it’s the woman’s voice who picks up where he left off.

“Rey -”

“Dr. Organa,” it takes everything not to let herself sound desperate. There’s some resignation; she already knows it’s hopeless, but she’s pleading all the same. “There’s no need to do this, I don’t need -”

“Don’t interrupt,” the woman deadpans, though gentility seeps back into her voice. “Rey, I’m going to tell you what I tell every young doctor. Hopefully, you’ll be the first to listen,” she confesses into the phone, constricting Rey’s throat as she listens to the woman’s voice. “Today, tomorrow, it doesn’t matter. Get as far away from this place as you can, go someplace where you feel most like yourself.”

There’s a pause where Rey stills. The lump in her throat lessens until she can swallow it and give her answer, unexpected to her own ears as well, “Thank you.”

A sigh of relief leaves the Doctor, “We’ll see you on Friday, Rey.” 

She’s not sure if she said anything goodbye. There was no ‘feel better’ or ‘I hope you’re well soon,’ and Rey’s partly glad. Then she realizes she’s holding a blanked phone to her ear, the call over. 

Not bothering to fall back asleep, she opts to wash her face and make breakfast. The rest of her movements that morning are rhythmic, mechanical even. In her flat complex, each layout is more or less the same. Relatively new, inexpensive, clean, albeit small. Her hands move about the parts of her routine one by one. Boil water. Make tea. Soft-boil eggs. Make toast. Pet the cat. 

Her flat has a small wooden folding table that could accommodate two, but her usual spot for breakfast is on the couch next to Vader, her British Shorthair. She’s used to balancing the egg-topped toast in one hand and meeting the black cat’s needy purr with the other. When the toast has finished, her tea’s cooled somewhat, but she finishes it anyway. Soon she’ll get a microwave. 

Someplace she felt most like herself. 

“Where do you think that would be, Vader?” Rey murmurs, folding the cat’s left ear back as he unfurls under her ministrations. She doesn’t need his answer, though. 

She knows where to go.

-

The first train from Edinburgh to Leuchars passes through the city and pastures in the morning light. She makes sure that she’s awake for the bridges on the Firth, their stark and geometric beams rising gently from the clouds and sea mist. The sun doesn’t rise, not before 8 in this time of the year. Still, there’s a brightening, and it glows steadily on the hills, waves, and homes between here and there. The train rocks her back to sleep, all fear of dark dreams soothed by its rolling on the tracks. 

There are a few other people at the train station when Rey arrives, but for the most part they take the countryside taxis. She walks the row of black cabs in favor of the overhang that marks the bus station. It’s a short wait there, and it’s only barely sheltered from the winds that pick up from the north. She holds her ground, though, until it comes, and from Leuchars she takes the bus to St. Andrews. 

Cobbles, arches, medieval ruins, shops. They’re all placed together in a post-card perfect town. But it’s outside the town she’s going to, outside where she feels most like she’s herself. So she starts the hour's walk at a leisurely pace, stopping when she reaches Maz Kanata’s corner store at the start of Emery Road. 

“Rey, dear. It is so good to see you,” the short, wiry woman behind the counter peeks over to greet Rey. “You should have come earlier, really it’s so good to see you,” she repeats. 

“I know. It’s good to see you too, Ms. Kanata.”

“Maz.” The clerk corrects her. 

Rey agrees readily, “Maz.” She needn’t say anymore. She stops and smiles as she realizes the woman is already sliding a covered cup of breakfast tea and a bagged steak pie over the counter. “How did you know?” She drops a couple pounds in Maz’s charity jar, already knowing she’d refuse to take the change. 

“I’ve lived on Emery Road for a long time, dear. It’s my business to know my neighbors.”

Rey only laughs politely, picking up the hot cup and crinkly pastry bag. “Has anyone moved into Isla Brae yet?”

“Hm,” Maz simply shakes her head. “Not yet. There’s only been the moving of things out. That lovely leather couch in the living room and all of the accessories are all gone. Someone’s even unwrapped those fairy lights from the tree by your mailbox.”

“Not mine anymore, Maz. Though I am here to stop by,” she nods in thanks for the tea and the steak pie, signalling her leave. 

“Lovely to see you, Rey. Take care,” she adds the last bit with emphasis, understanding lighting her eyes. 

“You too. Goodbye.” Her steps to leave the shop aren’t exactly swift; it’s good to be here. Only it’s better than she thought, reminding her of the something that’s missing in her life, the hollowness inside her. She fills it with hot tea and milk. The soft and buttery pastry, though, she enjoys just for its sake, the steak filling warming her considerably.

The remains of grease and crumbs she wipes onto her jeans, then she tucks the empty teacup and her hands back into her pockets. At the worn but sturdy rust-red mailbox, she stops, eyes taking in her old home and its surroundings. Were she living here, she’d be inside, moving maybe to open the door to the sea-descending stairs and dip her toes into the ocean. Then maybe the rest of her would follow. Its bracing cold and icy embrace were sometimes welcomed into her mornings her nights; she would bathe naked. It was the most alive she’d ever felt, rising up from the water to see pinks and blues glistening in the sky’s reflection. 

Rey’s shoulders lift a little at the memory. She doesn’t linger on the stark barrenness the home’s interior offers, nor the naked trunk and limbs of the alder tree next to the mailbox. Each inch of bark used to be wrapped around in fairy lights, so that winter or summer, it was beautiful. She’d dance under the tree and wave a fiery sparkler on the eve of the New Year, warding off unwelcome spirits she didn’t believe in. But she isn’t here to live in nostalgia or to be a self she was in the past. She’s simply here to be herself, as she is now. 

Oh, and to check her mail box. Her eyes flit to its ornate exterior. 

Without rush, her fingers unlatch the door and pick at the letter inside. There’s only the one, so she expects it’s the one she sent here to the nonexistent new tenant. Instead, though, the scripted letters of her name catch her eye from the envelope’s center. Something had come for her, after all. 

She tears the seal with her thumb and forefinger, slowing as she begins to read. 

_ 29 January, 2018 _

_ Dear Ms. Johnson, _

_ If you are expecting anything to arrive here for you, I hope I can help. I should, however, tell you that I’m the first person to live here, and I think you may have sent your letter to the wrong address. I think you should double check the address, in case you’re waiting for anything that might come through. I could refer you to the Sandberg Home or Maz Kanata, since they’re both on this road. I hope this helps.  _

_ Sincerely,  _

_ Ben Solo  _

_ PS: How did you know the house is called ‘Isla Brae’? _

The letter isn’t hand-written; Rey’s guess would be that he’d printed it out on a computer. Consternation pricks her brow, the words clashing with the empty house in front of her. Most of all though, was the date.

“Is he mad?” she mumbles, hands already fishing in her small white rucksack for pen and paper. A spot in the sky clears of clouds; and the light it shines by her feet is wonderful. She sits on the lower steps leading up to the dock, using the wood to support her hand as she writes.

“Dear Ben,” she says, but hesitates. First names were reasonable, right? Rey couldn’t imagine anything so formal as ‘Mr. Solo’ in her life. So she continues, aiming for honesty.

_ I have no idea why this letter was sent to you. However, if you are trying to mess with me, would you just leave any letters in the place where you found the first one?  _

Rey dots the question mark, looking it all over. And yes, she decides she will come out here to check. Once every two weeks maybe. She continues writing. 

“In the red mailbox. Thanks, Rey.” Ben sets the letter down on the paint tarp by his brushes, getting back to the black paint he’d been layering onto a rocking chair he’d picked up in town that morning. He had picked it up, along with some other essentials, in town that morning. The cat’s still watching him from the window sill, but he does his best to ignore it. Which isn’t difficult, with the troubling PS Rey had left at the end. 

_ PS: You’re not actually serious about writing from 2018, are you?  _

“What does she mean, it’s 2020?” Ben huffs as he bends to paint a particular hard-to-reach nook. Until he hears something heavy sliding across wood. 

“What are you doing, little guy?” as he looks back to check the cat, the small metal can of paint finisher he’d left on the windowsill smacks him on the forehead. “OW! Ack - cat?!” he fishes for a more offensive exclamative, but he gets nothing beyond the sharp pain. Something knocks over behind him, and the cat runs off. When the throbbing in Ben’s temple abates, he checks around him for any damage. The black paint.

Luckily, most of the spill had fallen onto the tarp, with the cuff of his black jeans the only victim of his ensemble to the spill. Still, something dark over the other side of the porch catches his eye.

Paw prints, cat pawprints, in black paint. 

He wets his lips, standing to survey the dozen small black paws decorating the threshold of his house. Deciding he’ll worry about it later, he bends to roll the cuff of his jeans up, only to notice the edge of Rey’s letter under his boot. 

His fingers pluck it up, scanning the date once more. He’d have to check the letter inside too, but the paw prints…

“Who are you, girl from the future?” 

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

He wants to write to her immediately, but there isn’t much to say, only the itch to fill his growing boredom from driving at a crawling place in the dreach weather. Nevertheless, he drives on, and the way his shabby car withstands the wind and the slick roads is nothing short of praise-worthy. “Atta girl,” he pats the dash as he makes it through the city limits, the brakes shrieking obstinately at the stoplight ahead. Miraculously though, he comes to a halt without his car falling apart beneath him, and in the way of road conditions, the worst is behind him. 

This part isn’t so bad. The heart of Edinburgh opens the drapery of mist and gray to broader visions, the centuries of history blending together in the cobbles and archways as he drives along the alleys. As a student, he had used each inter-lecture or seminar stroll to get lost in the city’s living fantasy of the past. This time, however, it was more or less one of the future that his thoughts were working at. A letter to Ms. Johnson.

When he writes, he’ll say that yes, he can leave her letters in the mailbox, should anything come for her. He imagines her as one of his mother’s matronly friends, perpetually making scones or tea or an itchy sweater. His mother wasn’t that old, herself, but his childhood wasn’t short of moments sitting and ‘catching up’ with friends like these. From the good old days. 

Scoffing lightly to himself, he parks his car on a side street by the national museum on Chambers Street, wondering if the mystery woman would really come by someday. If she really was from 2020, he imagines, a light smile twitching at his mouth, it would be maybe two years from now. A thought arrests him, and he reaches to the book of notes in the passenger seat, fishing through the pages carefully to keep the odd bits and ends of paperwork from slipping out. 

Under a note for the week, there’s her letter, in its envelope where he’d left it. There’s the one from before as well, the first one. His eyes skim the page until he finds the address, 1012 Cluny Gardens Apartments. 

A buzz from his pocket catches him from his thoughts, alerting him to a text from Finn. 

_On my way out._

As he reads, a ray of scattered sunlight hits his windshield, and he looks up. Not one to turn down an rare opportunity for vitamin D, he steps from the car, not paying mind the lingering drops of water that fall from the sky while he wanders towards the middle of the pavement, looking up. He sees silver linings and yes, even blue sky. The sunlight only lasts a moment, though, and the rain falls again, softer than before, but still eclipsing his sunshine. “Ben!”

Across the street, Finn calls to him from the door of the university’s architecture department, stepping down from the simple steps and away from the neo-classical facade of the Adam House. There’s a faint smell of hot plastic and wood that wafts from somewhere in Ben’s memory, years of building his models in that very building emerging with various senses. He knows he’s only imagining it. The sensations grow and mix, overpowering the smell and sound of the rain pattering across the sidewalk where he stands in the here and now. 

“Finn,” he smiles, stepping forward to embrace him, but the sight of the man’s portfolio papers exposed to the rain startles his traumatized student heart. “Finn, God, just wait there. No, wait please,” though he’s already removed his jacket, hands held up to offer it as a layer of protection for the sketches, Finn shakes his head, an agitation in his brow Ben hadn’t seen before flaring noticeably. 

“Just leave it,” he mutters, crossing the car to duck into the passenger side. He falls more than sits into the seat, and Ben has to move quickly to grab his notebook. In its place, Finn hugs his folder to his chest, the rain scattered edges of his drawings spilling haphazardly Ben watches as Finn’s hands fumble for a moment to wipe the water off, before deciding their task is worthless. “Damnit.”

Ben closes his own door, shutting out the rain and the cold. He doesn’t need to look in his rearview mirror to spot the man responsible for Finn’s fowl mood, the weight he feels in his chest outside that building, his own experience with the man’s bitter expectations, speaks well enough. 

“Skywalker get to you again?” He asks, tongue in cheek as his fingers move to turn up the car’s heating. Finn doesn’t meet his question with an answer, not directly.

“I can’t make him happy. The man’s just,” he looks down at the papers, laughing at himself as he pulls one loose among the greenhouse-airports and rugby stadiums, “too good for anything I make.” It’s a drawing of a hamster, running in its wheel. 

“Won’t let you make your hamster wheels, huh?” Ben clasps a firm hand to his shoulder, though perhaps it’s not as supportive a gesture as he had intended. 

Finn nods though, eyes appreciative as he clears his throat, a smile hinting at his lips. “I’m pretty sure my life is a hamster wheel. A whole suburb of them.”

His jest elicits a laugh from Ben, though he knows Finn, knows the stress that's still unrelenting behind his wary joke. 

“Come on,” Ben yields his hand from his friend’s shoulder, restarting the car for a drive he knows all too well, “have I taken you to the Leith fish n’ chips yet?”

Finn huffs, rolling his eyes, “Only every single time I’ve had a meltdown.” As Ben drives, the rain recedes once more, allowing him to give the windshield wipers a break.

“Ben. You know Leith is north,” Finn looks back at the street junction they’ve turned from, quirking a brow at Ben.

“I know,” he shrugs, “just a quick drive by. There’s this girl I need to drop off letters for.” It’s a half lie: he knows there’s not really anything to drop off yet. Only he grits his teeth as he realizes Finn’s shit-eating grin, instantly regretting his choice of words. 

“A girl you say?”

“Shut up,” Ben mumbles, keeping his eyes on the road. “She’s the old tenant for my place up in St. Andrews. The beachhouse.” 

She said she could pick up the mail from there, a three hour errand if his google maps were anything to go by. He was just curious. The address she’d given him goes a ways beyond the city center, where the artsy cafes and park-side sports teams give way to stacked brick flats and commuter cars. 

Finn picks up the envelope Ben had already addressed to her, facing him when their car comes to a slow stop, the words on the envelope read, to-and-from address alike. “You mean to tell me you got that creepy dump?” Ben only cocks his chin in reply, no bother to watch Finn laugh in disbelief. “You’re joking. Mate, that’s why you left Edi? For some abandoned, haunted beach house…” 

“It’s not too bad,” he counters, familiar with Finn’s age-old protests regarding his leaving the city. 

“No. It’s wack.” Finn says, his voice insistent. Ben knows he has his support though, one thanks he can give for their shitty years together in First Order internships and the-less-than-stellar upgrade at Skywalker’s. Still, Finn is one of the only friends he left with, which is why he’s loathe to hear the next question his socialite friend can shoot at him. “You’re going to have a housewarming party, though, right?” 

“I don’t need a housewarming party. I …” Ben’s mouth runs dry trying to find an explanation, only to have his mind inexplicably run through with thoughts of that stupid cat. “I have a cat.” 

“You have a cat.” Finn deadpans, a dubious scowl settling over his features. “Now you _know_ how that sounds.” 

That was the problem, Ben was hardly culpable when it came to loving pets. He sputters a little, his hands still on the wheel though they’ve stopped. His defence, though, is pertinent; anything that will save him from a social obligation. “He just showed up at the house from out of nowhere. Just a scrappy scavenger.” His eyes plead with Finn, “He needs me, Finn. And he is not a people person.” 

“Ha. He’s perfect for you.” Finn adds, openly exasperated. Ben thinks he hears him say “ _Waste of youth. Waste of beauty,_ ” under his breath, but his hearty laughs keeps him from knowing for certain. Even when he steps out of the car. “Wait, what are we doing here?”

Ben takes a step onto the pavement, answering Finn from over his shoulder as he side-steps some construction tape. “This is the place.” 

A car door clicks shut behind him, and Finn steps beside him, hands all stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket. 

“So she lives in a crack den?” 

“Not all construction sites are crack dens,” Ben shoves him with his hand, though Finn’s lack of enthusiasm is unyielding. Soon, he can see why, his own certainty wavering at the obviously unlivable mess around them. “This can’t be it…” 

At his feet is newly dried cement, spare pipe work and other construction bits. Where there’s room on the walls, posters advertise the building’s intended use; a complex of flats for the coming autumn. Towering over them, the scaffolding still leaks droplets of leftover rainfall over their heads. A drop falls onto the letter in his hand, dotting the ink where Rey’s handwriting reads 1020 Cluny Gardens. 

The same name on the adverts. 

“But… there’s nothing here,” he admits aloud, defeated, the sound of his voice so low Finn doesn’t catch up. The man only shivers audibly, declaring the end of his patience and his entitlement to a fish n’ chips.

And so he follows, leaving the cement skeletons behind them. Once Finn is appeased, a spread of leftover breading and ketchup smears on a cheap paper bag signally his contentment, Ben sighs. It hasn’t left his mind for a moment, not even when he splits a fried Mars bar with Finn. Well…

“Are you going to eat that?” A napkin obscures Finn’s speech, but his intent gaze speaks well enough, and Ben slides the rest of the fried chocolate bar on its napkin across the table. “You don’t look so good, Ben.”

Ben doesn’t look at him, merely shrugging. “I just ate my weight in potatoes and fried fish.”

“Not that,” Finn eyes him knowingly. “Who is she anyway?” He wipes his hands on another napkin, phone in his hand as Ben realizes his intentions: a google search bar.

No, he shouldn't consider it. This was _weird._ This couldn’t _not_ be weird. Weirder still, was him entertaining the notion that she’d be from the future. More likely, more probably, was that she was only an elderly woman with medically accountable delusions. Ben shifts uncomfortably under Finn’s expectant expression, but his curiosity only builds. 

“Rey,” he sighs defeatedly, surrendering her name before he remembers the important part, “Rey Johnson.”

Finn hums, this thumbs typing with lightning speed and zealous effort. Ben leans in before he realizes, drawn to whatever’s at the end of that google search. And then…

“Well, I have to give it to her. She could have been Sarah,” the results show a thousand or so names in Facebook. Less on Instagram. Finn’s back at work before Ben can give him suggestions. Reychel. Rachel. St. Andrews. Edinburgh. Then every single platform he can think of, even LinkedIn. It takes a few minutes, and Ben’s thoughts drift back to her script on the pages, like the poems and quotes his mother would ask him to write in calligraphy for her - 

“Pinterest. There’s a Pinterest.” Finn chuckles when Ben sits up, biting his cheek. “I mean I’m sure she’s great, Ben, if soccer moms are your thing.”

“Finn. Don’t even know her.” Ben’s voice warns him subtly, though it drifts off as he looks over Finn’s screen. The profile is vague, to say the least. An archway in Europe, somewhere in the pouring rain. Through it, he can see a woman in light-washed jeans and green rain boots standing on the other side, her umbrella shielding her head and shoulders from the downpour. 

Finn’s battery is near dead so they finish up, tossing the scraps and greased napkins from their meals in the bin. The woman behind the kitchen counter waves goodbye and they leave, making their way to Ben’s car. Any thoughts of Pinterest boards or mystery women escape him for the rest of the night; instead, they fill the time with Finn’s “impeccably crafted” indie artists’ playlist and the long drive home. Finn lives in a studio by Princes Street, but the congestion isn’t too bad when it’s this late. Finn opens the door, Ben hands him his rain-tattered sketches, but his fingers don’t let go yet, not until Finn looks back.

“You’re good enough Finn. You’re better, actually.” With Finn’s reluctant nod of acknowledgment, he let’s go, as more to say comes to mind. “Don’t let him convince you otherwise,” he smiles a little sadly at that. Even after all these years, he needs to hear it as much as Finn does. 

—

_4 February 2018_

_Dear Ms. Johnson,_

Backspace. _Rey._ Backspace. _Ms. Johnson,_

_I tried to go to 1020 Cluny Gardens, and the building isn’t finished at the moment. I don’t mean to mess with you, it’s only that there’s nothing but a construction site at the address you gave me. From the pictures it looks nice, but not until another eighteen months from now. If there’s anything important you’re expecting in the mail, I would contact the courier service; they might be able to help._

_Sincerely,  
Ben Solo _

_P.S. It really is the year 2018 I’m living in._

“No, I couldn’t find him. Not even on LinkedIn,” Rose huddles her cup of tea and her phone on Rey’s worn leather couch, her eight-year-old sleeping in her lap while the cat sleeps in Rey’s. A woman from her residency days in London, Rose was bright smiles and warm eyes. Career-wise, they couldn’t differ more, between her shifts in the emergency room and Rose’s hectic nights as a single mom and a feminist book shop manager in Soho. Only their shared commute, coffee runs, and love of matinee theatre showings had built up their friendship after their initial run in on the tube, reading the same American author in paperback, _Barbara Kingsolver_. Rey was lucky for the weekends they could visit each other. When it was them visiting she’d crash on her couch for the night to let Rose and Paige take her bedroom. 

The layout had changed a little since she moved out of the beach house, but they still enjoyed it. Rey herself sat with her legs curled beneath her on the other side of the couch, cradling her own cup of camomile and rubbing Vader’s ears while he slept. More demanding of her attention, though, was this letter. 

“Honestly, Rose, I can't be bothered. Who has the time for this?” She laughs under her breath, Ben’s letter laid on the blanket between them. Sure enough, he’d left it in the mailbox for her, and she found it on her last trip out to St. Andrews. 

“Yeah, I don’t even know anyone who types their letters,” Rose agrees, keeping her voice to a whisper for Paige. 

Rey shakes her head, “Rose, it’s not that. It’s the whole time-thing that’s so strange.” 

Rose shrugs, blowing on her tea to cool it off, “I can’t say I envy him, if February 2018's where his timeline’s at. The bookshop was closed for a week.”

“That was that year?” A little crinkle forms between Rey’s brows as she sorts her memories. 

“Yes! Remember the snow? Paige’s field trip was canceled and you had all those accidents from people sledding in Hyde Park.” 

“Oh my word, you’re right,” Rey takes a sip of her tea, her scoff turning into a small laugh as she cradles the draining heat of her mug. It was cold that year. “God, maybe I should warn him then.” She shoots a cool smirk at Rose, and they try to quiet their giggling as Paige stirs. 

Since their muted laughter doesn’t work, and Paige groans obstinately, Rose sets her mug down, seeing her signal to finally put her daughter to bed. “Goodnight Rey,” she wraps Paige’s slight arms around her neck, the little girl waving a small goodbye to Rey as well. 

“Goodnight,” she whisper-replies, allowing herself to stretch out over the couch and stash another pillow behind her head. There are a pen and notebook on the same table Rose placed her empty mug, both leftover from her journaling. Her eyes flit to Ben’s letter, deciding half-past midnight is as good a time as any to start a letter. It’s a strange thing, writing when it’s this dark and late. She tells herself it’s for courtesy, but perhaps she’s enjoying it too. Still, something small sits uneasily in her chest, prodding her, wondering if something impossible is happening. But she pushes it away, writing to her mystery correspondent instead.

_Dear Ben,_

_From the 22nd of February, 2018 it will snow quite a lot. Just in case you are where and when you say you are, I’d recommend a sled, but only if you use it sensibly. Doctor’s orders._

She starts, all intention to jest with him as her pen drifts across the page. But then her writing slows to something softer and free, and she lets it happen.

_If you really are living in the year of 2018, though, I hope you have a good day._

_Sincerely, Rey_

_P.S. Be sure to be careful of getting a cold; there were a lot of sniffles that year._

Ben scrapes his leftover fish and rice back into the pan, not enough for lunch tomorrow, but enough to feed the cat. More importantly, though, it prompts said cat to move from his claimed spot on the charity-shop armchair to eat, finally giving Ben a chance to reclaim his seat and read his letters. His eyes read the words, then the date on his phone. Today is the 22nd. 

Something akin to excitement sparks where his lungs are, and he stands back up to look out to the shoreline on the southside, its banks stretching to his right for a ways away. The water beneath is still, but sure enough, a different eastern wind is rippling over its surface.

“She says it’s going to snow. How would you feel about sledding, little guy?” he looks over his shoulder at the cat, who only meets him with his perpetually unamused glare. Ben ignores it and moves back to the kitchen. 

In the time it takes him to reboil the water in the kettle and make a cup of hot chocolate, the cat’s already settled again in Ben’s spot. “Fine,” he mutters under his breath. He’s putting marshmallows in his cocoa when he sees it though - 

The first snowfall on the ocean surface. 

It falls gently at first, swirling in dances between different gales in the wind. The little piles of white look better on the sands, and further into the grasses by the beach, so he walks out there, stepping from his dock back onto the land. 

There’s a sharper wind that bites at the skin under his jacket collar, so he tugs it closer, happy to sip his cocoa and stand still for a moment. When his cup is empty, he places it in the snow, red-cold hands moving to plug in the Christmas lights he’d wrapped around the barren tree by the mailbox. 

Sure enough, it’s beautiful, every branch illuminated with strings of golden light. He wonders if she’ll see it when she drops off the mail next. Between his time working with the historical reconstruction crews in town and grading papers for the university’s architecture department, he misses her every time. Still, a thought still lingers that it’s not because he’s busy, but because she’s not here yet. 

He looks at the tree a moment longer, a weird itch starting in his nose. A violent sneeze escapes him, and he blinks, startled. He shakes his head, bending to brush the piled snow off of his mug and make his way inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your positive reviews and kudos! More updates to follow soon :)
> 
> Side notes:  
> Some people do really eat fish and chips off of a folded paper bag, nbd
> 
> The 2018 snow storm referenced here is the 'Beast from the East' weather front that put the entire British island under half a meter of snow. Ironically, they also had problems with stock-piling as people waited out the storm. Ben's not going to have a good time.
> 
> I love writing Rose and Paige together into my stories; I guess one of my favorite, albeit depressing, ideas is of her naming a daughter after her late sister. 
> 
> Barbara Kingsolver is an amazing author. Some great works by her include The Bean Trees, The Lacuna, and The Poisonwood Bible


	4. Chapter 4

She takes Rose and Paige to the top of Blackford Hill, where they watch the winds scatter the clouds over the city and the ocean around. Although she had done two years of residency in London, her childhood home was near here in the Edinburgh outskirts, making the best of studying medicine from her foster dad’s flat. Her first taste of freedom had been her email of acceptance from the uni, though it was another two years in labs and seminars before her degree requirements swept her away to London, where she met Rose and lived under her own rules for once. She couldn’t go back. Her final year she made it herself; her flat was only a mile away, but it was enough. After that her placement in St. Andrews took her to the best home she’d ever known. As for Edinburgh, it never occurred to her that in the ten or so years since she had moved into Plutt’s care as a foster child, she never really got to know the city the way the tourists and Potter-heads do. 

Blackford Hill is perhaps the closest she’s gotten, and she treasures it for that reason. Spires, castle, crags, all can be seen in their stony perfection. On the nicest days, the firth and ocean waters glittered under passing clouds. On their last morning, Rey takes Rose and Paige to its summit, passing the observatory and the avid dog-walkers. There’s no snow this year, only bitter winds that bring chapped lips. They get a brunch of poached eggs and toast before Rose and Paige whisk away in a bus to the train station. Rey waves a gloved hand from the pavement, blowing a kiss to her friend and daughter. She tries not to cry this time they leave, she's just not sure she wants to go back to her flat alone. 

She does eventually. The flat is colder without them, which seems obvious giving that she really only turned her heating on for guests. She has eight hours left until her next shift at the infirmary, and without her conscious assent her steps take her back to the bus stop, where she gets a train to Haymarket Station. It’s only an hour to St. Andrews, and the hour after that to Isla Brae, and she could use the trip to take her mind off of the emptiness lingering in her flat, and if she’d admit it, herself as well. 

She contemplates staying to read the letter she finds in the mailbox. Sure enough, her pen pal had left it, no bother at an address anymore; only her name centred in neat handwriting on the envelope. Her feet ache from the walk, and she fantasizes of the days she had a bike to navigate the seaside lanes en route to her first workplace. At least then her body moved with the wind instead of being constantly displaced by its whims. 

She sleeps on the train ride, and on the buses home, but she’s wide awake for the hour or so she has left before the scrubs go on and she bids Vader goodbye for another night. Instead, she reads. 

“Dear Rey, As you mentioned in your letter, it snowed quite a bit from February 22nd. Also I’ve got a cold, just as you said…” her voice fades as her eyes skim the sentences. It’s the first time he’s written in his own hand. She tries not to think of it. It’s not significant at all, but the gesture makes her smile faintly and shake her head to herself as she continues. 

_ It really is a strange thing. It would be much easier to believe you are a prophet or a psychic rather than believe you are living in the year 2020. Could this be happening?  _

Her pen moves easily, undaunted by the fact her shift is only two hours away now. She wonders at his words, but also if this is worth going out to the beach house more frequently. It’s indulgent, she knows. There’s not many reasons beyond conversing with a stranger she can use to justify it, yet it’s only two days until she makes the trip again to put that little letter in the mailbox, along with the scarf and earmuffs. 

While he’s sick, it’s no surprise to him that the cat doesn’t exactly sympathize with his snivels. Meanwhile Ben just wraps himself in a quilted throw with a mug of Lemsip cradled to his stomach, and yet like clockwork the cat demands he get up from his sneezing misery to deliver food service. He wasn’t the only one less than enthused. When Ben first moved in the shorthair would come and go as he pleased, but the recent turn in the weather made reluctant roommates of them both. And the fact that the cat finds clawing up his only loo roll entertaining didn’t help. So he faces the fact he’ll have to leave the house sooner or later. On his way to the shops, heavy coat hanging from his shoulders, he gets the mail, or rather, Rey’s letter. He intentionally requests the rare package or purchase to go to his small work office in town, rather than get the traffic out by his all-glass house. So he goes from checking the mail every now and then every time he gets the chance. This time, though, there’s something else behind the letter. 

His hands rove the back of the mailbox, feeling something fluffy and cloth. When he’s holding them, a pair of earmuffs and a scarf, in his hands, he smiles in spite of himself. Rather than taking them to his car, his steps steer him back to the beach house, forfeiting the day and his dinner plans for the sake of another night in. As nice as it would have been to not have leftovers a third night in a row, he knows it’ll be nicer once he’s not sneezing every minute. 

There’s a furnace he started building before the snow and chill set it. If he’d have finished it, perhaps he would have opened her letter over by the fire. Instead he turns the oven on and sits as close to it as his nerve-endings allow. This was good. In retrospect, it was a terrible idea to head out in his state. His fingers text Hux, a colleague and hopeful friend, an S.O.S. asking for help with getting the groceries. Though he’s not sure if their acquaintance-ship is at that level yet, he’s willing to bet after he covered Hux’s ass in a date-gone-wrong last week this shouldn’t be too much to ask. 

His fingers, already recovering their warmth in the indoors, move to undo his boot laces and the letter’s sealed edge. The date says 29 February, and he laughs aloud at the realization she wrote on a leap year. There was nothing particularly special about the leap year, only it made it just that much harder to say if two years flat separated their correspondence. Would it be two years and a day now? He shakes his head to himself, not bothering to school his over-eager laugh or eyes as they take in her words. 

_ Dear Ben, _

_ It is hard for me to believe you are living in the year of 2018 too. But I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt; you don’t seem like someone who would write these things for the fun of it. Though I still could use some prophetic or psychic abilities in my life right now. Perhaps then we could know what was going on. Do you have any other theories?  _

_ Yours, _

_ Rey _

His brow raises in question at that. She’s never explicitly invited him to write back to her before, and now of all things, it was to discuss possible theories with him regarding their letters. But then there were the gray earmuffs and even darker gray scarf, still unaccounted for. He checks the back of the page for answers and finds them there, as per her usual choice in PS placement. 

_ I told you not to catch a cold, but you have my sympathies.  _

He barks a laugh at that, eliciting a startled jump from the cat that gets him scowled at for the tenth time that day. “That makes one person on my side,” he quips to the cat. The cat shoots a final glare at him and yawns with razor teeth before he settles back into his nap on his armchair. “Sorry, little guy,” he apologizes feebly for the disturbance. God, he had to find a better name. There’s more to read, though.

_ I should have maybe given some equipment with my forewarning. Hope you are well soon.  _

Gray and black tartan scarf. Light pink earmuffs. Was this how she saw his personality on paper? The gray and black matched his wardrobe to a T, but what about the earmuffs? Maybe they were hers, and she’d just grabbed them on the fly for them. Either way, he’s not one to indulge in fragile masculinity and its colour constructs, so he wraps up in the scarf and tries the earmuffs on for size. Amazingly, they cover his ears pretty decently, a pro given his disposition to hiding them behind his dark hair. 

As the scarf’s wooly fabric brushes his lips, he finds himself spitting out some of the black cat hair he’d been increasingly finding in the last few weeks. Unable to help himself, he gets up and strides over to the cat, intent on giving him a good rant. 

“Seriously? I just got this scarf.” He waves the scarf for the cat’s perusal, shaking it with an exasperated hand on every word. Just because he can. “I can’t believe you’ve done this. How did you even -” his voice quietens as he sees the scarf in the new lamplight, no small amount of cat hair on it. It’s a lot of cat hair, in fact. Observing the abrupt conclusion of Ben’s outburst, the cat jumps down from his spot on the couch to claw at his laces. Ben doesn’t even stop him, this time. 

Paw prints. Cat hair. He’s not even sure a pinterest page would necessarily tell him if Rey has a cat too. For the first time since that dinner with Finn in Leith though, he wonders if it would hurt to check…

Although he automatically chastises himself for the idea, soon the pros outweigh the dwindling cons. So he downloads the app, finding her profile. Thinking on it, he knows it’s not necessarily hers, but the images that accompany the account don’t contradict anything in and of themselves. There’s a board for watercolor prints, calligraphy, book shelves and other miscellaneous DIY that he soon finds a pin for homemade-cat toys on, mostly made from cereal boxes. He tucks his phone away in his pocket and appraises the scarf further. Maybe he couldn’t offer much in the way of theories, but there was something… 

_ Rey,  _

_ Thank you for the scarf and earmuffs. You’re awfully good at gauging my wardrobe, for someone living in the future.  _

_ Ben,  _

_ I should have told you… In 2020 we read minds and everybody’s assigned an aesthetic. Just delivering on yours; I hope you use this knowledge wisely.  _

_ Thank you Rey, I’ll keep that in mind. I wish I could offer something new in the way of theories. There is one more thing I’m curious about, though. I’ve been thinking about the pawprints; the feral cat who shares my property made them after I first moved in. Do you happen to have a black cat over in Edinburgh?  _

Well  _ that _ was a new mention. Rey throws her scrubs in the washer, clasping her robe a little tighter around her torso as she double checks Ben’s note. Vader rubs affectionately at her shins where she stands by the kitchen counter, weaving himself in the space between her slippers. She looks down at the shorthair with an equally affectionate grin, seeing him in a new light. “Well you’re certainly not feral,” she assures him. Only he was definitely black. 

_ Well, what if?  _

_ Dear Ben,  _

_ When you mention feral cats, I can’t say as much about my cat Vader. He has a healthy black coat, if not a slightly unhealthy weight as well, in the vet’s words. Only I did find him at the beach house when I moved in.  _

_ I don’t know why, but Vader’s what I call him. He’s a good soul. Pensive and moody, but quite cuddly once you get to know him. His love language, though, is undoubtedly food. We have that in common, I suppose. I think it would be safe to say you lived in Isla Brae before I did. But if yours is the same, I wonder why you didn’t take him with you when you moved out. _

“When I moved into Isla Brae,” Ben murmurs over the words, “he was curled up on the leather armchair, like he belonged there.” He casts a glance at the very subject taking his seat even now, “Guess I’m not getting that back not anytime soon,” he mumbles to himself before finishing the sentence.

“It’s the one who sleeps like a human, isn’t it?” As he reads, Ben eyes the cat with less contempt than he might have once. His lithe body is draped over the chair, contorted beyond what Ben would believe possible for comfortable sleeping positions. “Cat. Are you Vader?” He asks, risking a hand to scratch the sleeping cat’s ear. He doesn’t move at that, only keeps snoring lightly with his belly facing the ceiling. “Vader. Hey, Vader,” he tests the name before scoffing lightly, “Couldn’t have named him better myself.” 

_ Dear Rey,  _

_ I guess the space-time continuum has been twisted somewhere. If you and I were in the same time zone, Vader should be with one of us and not both of us. And I swear the pensive, moody, food-loving cat -  _

“Is living with me…” Rey’s breath escapes her as she finishes his final words, bringing the letter unconsciously to her lips. She had to go. 

At the soonest chance she has, her steps are taking her down Emery Road once more. She never dreamed when she walked away from it last Christmas that she’d be here so soon and so often, again and again. When she rounds the final corner, spotting the top of the ash tree from over the hill, she walks faster, her pace a near-run until she’s at the dock. 

The dock. Still leading up to an empty glass house. Despite having tucked her hair in her normal three buns, the wind tugs at them mercilessly until she’s lost control, only one tie left to keep some of it half up and from falling in her eyes. 

The other hair-ties rest in her hand, until an urge pushes her without her knowing its meaning, and she opens the mailbox lid to place the bands in. 

There’s a restlessness that would have her pace, but she only stands still. The sun is rising now, but she had to be there. For a moment, she lets herself look to the hilly bank by the roadside, the daffodils planted there in wild bunches. It’s only the earlier days of March, but they begin to turn their golden heads towards the dawn-filled sky and she doesn’t know why her heart is racing. 

Ben steps from the threshold of the glass house in wary steps. Something has changed in the air, or the ground. Like a new sun and it’s gravity entering the universe. Drawn to it, he steps away from the house, it’s fragility and securities, to the dew-filled grasses on the lane. He’d thrown a black sweater on haphazardly before he stepped out, now he tugs it around the exposed planes of his hip and abdomen to shield from the wind. His even breaths are the only sound, until the he opens his eyes and the mailbox opens under his hesitant hands. 

Two black loops, tiny in his hand. He closes it, his fist pressed to his lips as a smile breaks through. Rey. 

She waits as long as she can bear, opening the mailbox when she’s sure she won’t be disappointed if the hair-ties are still there. It’s not entirely true. 

Registering the total emptiness inside the mailbox, her jaw drops, her fingers already moving for the pen and post-it that will hopefully complete the bridge. 

_ Ben. It was the mailbox.  _

“The mail box,” Ben’s voice drops as he reads the post-it note. For two minutes he had briefly ran into the house to grab a notebook and pen. When he opened the mailbox, he hadn’t expected something new. Not only that, but what it meant. She was there. 

_ Rey, you’re brilliant. Truly, you are. It was because of the mail-box.  _ His hands are quick to put the note in, with faith she’s there, somewhere, to see it. Thinking again, he pulls it out before closing the door.

_ Thank you for your hair-ties. They’ll come in hand, I promise.  _

Rey reaches a hand out to touch the mailbox, the beating in her heart continuing its relentless pace with the growing dawn. But it’s not for anxiety now that her heartbeat doesn’t slow. There’s a note, a sign, and she knows whatever this is, it’s real. 

_ I’m glad to hear they’ll be useful. Since you’ve implied you have long hair, I should ask if we’re talking Jason Mamoa or Keanu Reeves?  _

He runs a hand through said hair, then chuckles a bit nervously. She made some quite attractive examples. He tries adding it the list of things not to overthink, like mentioning her love language, and signing her name with “yours.” 

_ I believe that’s a fair question, though I’d feel disingenuous using the comparisons you mentioned. However if I do have to say, I’m more John Wick. _

This was obvious flirting, and he wasn’t treading lightly. “Pull it together, Solo.” As he says it, he wonders. And he wonders if it’s dangerous. But he knows he’s better off asking her now. Would he have a chance? As he makes up his mind, he leaves a final question, only her name. 

_ Rey? _

_ Yes? _

_ Could I ask a question as well? _

She clutches the papers to her chest, the ones they started on and the one they’re sharing now. The papers rise and fall on her heart as she breathes a steady pattern, in time with the eight second-increments she counts to the sound of her wristwatch. She needs to leave soon, and she decides an answer.

_ What do you want to know?  _

He returns her reply swiftly, readily. She feels dizzy on her feet but she stays, waiting for that slip of paper that might be the only relief. 

_ It is a what, but it’s also more of a when. _

_ When can I see you? _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliff hanger! I also hope the back-and-forth formatting wasn't too confusing. Thank you again for your support and feedback. I'm touched by the response to this fic and excited to update you all soon. Much love and stay well.


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